


The Future of Journalism (The Newsroom AU)

by jehanjoly (orphan_account)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - Journalism, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-25 11:47:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/jehanjoly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is a successful news anchor who has been invited back to speak at his journalism school. He goes off script when he thinks he sees Grantaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Enjolras really didn’t want to come to Madison.

When the invitation came in for him to be the keynote speaker at the annual alumni event for the journalism school, he was initially flattered. For Enjolras – at the age of 36, the youngest man ever to anchor a 9:00 pm network news show – it truly showed that he’d arrived. The J school at UW had produced journalists who had won Pulitzers and Emmys, so for the school to ask him to speak was an honor indeed.

But he began regretting his acceptance as soon as he heard the topic of the speech: America and the Future of Journalism.

Truth be told, Enjolras had no idea what that future held.

He had been out of college for 15 years now, working his way up from reporting at a station in Milwaukee to an anchor job in Chicago to a job in New York at a network morning show to his current position. And what he’d seen didn’t leave him with a lot of optimism about America and the Future of Journalism. Layoffs and buyouts, fawning stories about corporations who sponsored the broadcasts, more and more “lifestyle” stories and fewer foreign bureaus.

But he had a feeling that was not what the eager young students wanted to hear. After all, they had decided to major in journalism, for Christ’s sake – who did that anymore, when the field was dying and these kids were guaranteeing themselves a life of poverty? Being a journalist these days was a little like being a monk – taking vows of poverty and obedience.

Though at least monks had eternal salvation to look forward to. All journalists had to look forward to was the admonition to do more with less.

But here he was, back in the communication building, just an hour away from giving his speech, dressed in an impeccable suit with a red tie. There was a hard copy of his speech in his breast pocket — he’d outsourced its writing to his producer, Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac was one of two college friends who he’s brought with him to the network – the other was Combeferre, who had risen to a position as a corporate honcho, vice president of something or other, Enjolras could never quite remember.

The speech was beautifully written – full of platitudes about the role of the fourth estate, about journalism being essential to the functioning of democracy, about how the media existed to keep the powers-that-be honest. Enjolras had to stifle a smile as he read it on the flight from New York.

“You don’t actually believe this bullshit, do you?” he had said to Courf, when he called him after landing at the airport.

Courf had laughed. “God, no. But if I’ve learned anything in this job, it’s that you have to tell your audience what they want to hear.”

Courf’s words rang in his ears as he wandered around the communication building, eventually finding himself in the basement offices of the campus daily newspaper, where he had cut his teeth as a baby journo, covering city politics and eventually becoming the editor in chief. The offices hadn’t changed much – the place was still grimy and littered with pizza boxes and stacks of old print editions of the newspaper. He wandered around the office – strolling past the city desk, where Combeferre used to explain the workings of city government to fresh faced sophomores learning the beat; past the campus desk, where Courf would put his feet up on the desk, chattering away to anyone who would listen while he waited for the paper to be put to bed so they could make it to the Plaza before bar time.

Memories started flooding back of the stories they covered– the protests about tuition hikes, the city councilman who had been arrested for indecent exposure, the football player who had violated NCAA rules by selling his Rose Bowl jersey. He remembered the angry phone calls he’d received –from deans, from city leaders, even once from the football coach himself – and how he’d defended his reporters’ work. He recalled the pride he’d felt when their reporting helped change things – when the university decided to spread the tuition increases out over three years, or when the city councilman had to resign.

When did his reporting cease to matter?

Or more accurately, when did he stop reporting?

The slide was gradual, Enjolras thought, as he sunk into battered brownish couch in the corner – probably the exact same couch that was there 15 years ago. It probably started when he took a broadcast job instead of a print job, after an internship at a local TV station his senior year started him on a different path than he originally expected. The camera loved him, with his firm jaw and his mane of blond hair, which made him a natural for a career in television. And he loved the work – first as a reporter running around the city covering fires and shootings and tales of ordinary people triumphing over adversity, and later as an anchor, spending late nights in the studio while breaking news about a crisis in the Middle East or a tornado somewhere in the Plains.

But every year management brought in the focus groups and the market research. Make the stories shorter! Do more stories about diets and pets and celebrity gossip! Interact with your fans on social media!

At first Enjolras resisted the changes, making angry tirades at editorial meetings and fighting with his bosses. But his talent was unmistakable, and he kept moving up anyway. And as he moved up, he became less and less resistant to the changes – after all, how could principles compete with a gorgeous apartment in a pre-war building and weekends in the Hamptons?

He leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to clear his head – but a single thought kept bubbling to the surface.

What would Grantaire say about The Future of Journalism? he thought.

He’d probably say there was no future.

Ah, Grantaire.

It had probably been over a decade since he’d seen him last, when they were both in Chicago at the same time and met for drinks at a hotel bar in The Loop. Enjolras always remembered his eyes – his blue eyes that could always penetrate any principles he had left. 

They’d lost touch in the ensuing years, as Enjolras was climbing the network ladder and Grantaire bounced from newspaper to newspaper. He wasn’t even sure where he was, or what he was doing – if he was writing or simply passed out in a bar somewhere.

But Enjolras did recall sitting with him on this very same couch one night after deadline, after Courf had rounded everyone else up to go to the bar. They’d talked about music and politics and their philosophies of life.

And Grantaire had ended up on his knees on the grubby floor, sucking Enjolras off while looking up at him with those same blue eyes – his eyes probing yet ever so reverent.

What would Grantaire think if he saw Enjolras now – in his $3,000 suit, with his expensively coiffed hair and a watch that cost him more than his first car?

Somehow he was sure Grantaire would be unimpressed.

"Sir?” A female voice interrupted his reverie. “They’re ready for you.”

Enjolras stood up to follow her out the door.

 

**

Ten minutes later he was behind the lectern, after a fawning introduction from the dean of the college – the same dean, he recalled, who wanted to kick the newspaper office out of the building because he didn’t like en editorial they’d published criticizing the department’s overreliance on adjunct professors. There was not a single empty seat in the auditorium, as over 300 students and faculty trained their eyes on him, hoping to be inspired by his words.

They weren’t disappointed. Courf’s speech was well-received – the audience was rapt with attention, laughing at his self-effacing jokes, nodding as he made a vague point. When he finished, they stood in unison and applauded him heartily. 

“I think we have time for a few questions from the audience,” the dean said, as Enjolras nodded sagely. 

The first two questions were softballs – about his most interesting interview, about the difference between working in broadcast journalism versus print journalism – and Enjolras answered them breezily.

The third question came from the student who had found him in the newspaper office. 

“First of all, let me— let me say that I really— really admire your work, sir.” she said haltingly.

Enjolras smiled down at her, trying to put her at ease. “Thank you,” he said, in the anchor voice he’d perfected over the years.

“My question is—what advice would you give an aspiring journalist?” she asked.

Enjolras paused and looked around the auditorium. His eyes landed on a man in the very back row, a man with dark curly har and a beard. They locked eyes, and the man smiled.

In that moment, Enjolras could have sworn it was Grantaire.

Enjolras looked down at his notes, his mind racing – could it really be him, after all these years? He looked up again, thinking it had to have been a mirage. But the man was still there, and Enjolras could just barely read his lips.

“I believe in you,” he mouthed.

Enjolras shook his head in disbelief.

“Are you okay?” the dean whispered.

Enjolras glared at the dean, then cleared his throat to speak.

“My advice to young journalists? Don’t do it. Don’t even bother. Find another line of work. Go across the street to the business school and beg them to let you in, because journalism’s a field for suckers right now,” he blurted.

He could feel the tension in the room – but he couldn’t stop now.

“The media’s a watchdog? What a load of bullshit. The media is full of corporate assholes who only care about the bottom line. And they will keep telling you we need to cut budgets, and close foreign bureaus, and fire reporters, because their profit margin is only 20% instead of the 25% it used to be. And do you think for one minute they will ever question the very corporations that pay the bills? Will they ever really look into what ADM is doing when ADM gives them millions of dollars in ad revenue each year? God no,” he said, his voice gradually rising.

“You want my advice? Go to business school. Or better yet, go rob banks. It’s a hell of lot more honorable, and a damn sight more profitable,” he said, stepping away from the lectern, as the audience sat in stunned silence.

Enjolras looked up into the last row to see what Grantaire’s reaction was.

And he was nowhere to be found.

**

A hour later, Enjolras was sitting in a cab, bombing down East Washington Street toward the airport, when his cell phone rang. He looked at the number and groaned.

“Yeah?” he said, bracing himself for the verbal lashing Courfeyrac would certainly give him for going off script.

“Jesus, Enjolras!” Courf said. 

“I’m sorry, Courf. I thought I saw—I mean—” He wasn’t sure how to explain it.

“You’re a genius, man!” Courfeyrac exclaimed.

“What?” Enjolras asked. 

“Your rant,” Courfeyrac said. “It’s gone viral. Some kid recorded it on his phone and uploaded it to Youtube. It’s had thousands of hits already.”

“But—“ Enjolras hesitated. 

“This is it, Enj. The game-changer. Come to the office as soon as you get back to New York. We need to talk about how we can capitalize on this,” Courfeyrac was gleeful. “Maybe we can finally try something new, you know?”

“Maybe,” Enjolras said with a tired smile. “Hey Courf, can you do me a favor?”

“After tonight, man, I will do anything for you,” Courfeyrac said. “Hookers, blow, you name it.” 

Enjolras laughed. “Not necessary, man.” He hesitated for a second, then said quietly, “I need you to find Grantaire for me.”


	2. Chapter 2

Grantaire rolled over and looked at the clock. 3:37. He groaned audibly, knowing he needed to get himself up and out if he was going to be at the park by 5. If he wasn’t there on time, he knew the bride’s mother – a typical Park Avenue socialite, expecting the world to give in to her every demand -- would pitch a fit, and that was the last thing he needed today.

Wedding photography? Is this really what he was doing with his life? Spending his time dealing with demanding couples and bickering families, with flower girls wetting their pants and Chihuahuas serving as ringbearers? He’d been at this for three years now, and spending most Saturday nights at weddings was doing nothing to cure him of the one thing he believed in.

Love was for suckers.

Grantaire swung his feet onto the floor and reached to the nightstand for his pack of cigarettes. It was his only vice now – lung cancer be damned. He’d given up booze six years ago, and he'd done a stint in rehab four years ago to kick an addiction to the painkillers his doctor had prescribed for him when he’d fallen off a motorcycle.

Not that he wasn’t tempted every fucking day of his life to dull his pain with vodka or Vicodin, to let that warm numbness wash over him.

And to allow him to forget what his life had become.

Grantaire ran his fingers through his dark mess of curls and rubbed his eyes before hauling himself to his feet. He pulled on the pair of boxers he’d tossed on the floor next to the bed, cigarette still hanging out of his mouth, and wandered out of his bedroom and into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee.

He was standing at the counter, sipping his coffee, when Jehan burst into the apartment.

“R, have you seen the video?” Jehan asked, throwing his messenger bag on the kitchen table.

“I just got up -- when the fuck would I have watched a video?” Grantaire asked. “And don’t you have office hours this afternoon?”

“Cancelled them,” Jehan said. He taught writing at NYU. “No one is around on a Friday afternoon anyway – and I needed you to see this.” He pulled his laptop out of his bag and opened it.

“Please tell me this is not another cat video, Jehan.” Grantaire said, putting out his cigarette.

“Cats have won the internet, R,” Jehan said. “There have been studies showing that’s true. But this isn’t a cat video, for Christ’s sake.” He fiddled around with the computer, and opened up a Youtube video. “Watch,” he said, gesturing at the laptop.

Grantaire leaned over the computer, noticing the tag line, “Journalist tells truth about journalism.”

The video buffered for a moment – and then the screen was filled with Enjolras's face.

To Grantaire it seemed as if all of the air had left his body.

Enjolras looked beautiful – older, certainly, with creases on his face, but still had the twinkling eyes, the perfect blond hair. Grantaire had only caught glimpses of him in recent years, usually when he was stuck in a train station waiting room or a bar that was showing the news instead of ESPN, as the cost of rent in Manhattan made cable cost-prohibitive for them.

And as he listened to Enjolras’s rant, his mouth fell open slightly.

“I can’t believe he did that,” Jehan said after the video ended. 

“Did what?” Grantaire said, slightly dazed.

“Went on that rant. I mean, he’s never done anything like this. He’s been bland, inoffensive – everything middle America wants in an news anchor. What the fuck was he thinking?” Jehan shook his head. “He’s almost like the Enjy we knew in Madison, you know?”

“What, opinionated and pissy?" Grantaire asked. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

“I meant passionate, Taire,” Jehan said, opening the refrigerator and taking out a bottle of water. “He actually seems to give a shit for the first time since—well, since you two broke up.”

Grantaire said nothing, staring into the darkness of his coffee cup.

“Maybe he’s finally getting laid,” Jehan said casually, uncapping the bottle and taking a swig.

“Yeah, sure,” Grantaire said. “Someone would have to take the stick out of his ass first.”

Jehan almost choked on his water. “Stop it. I know things didn’t end on the best of terms—“

Grantaire finished off his coffee and put his mug in the sink with a clatter. “Jehan, he basically told me I was a worthless piece of shit. Not that he wasn’t right -- but seriously? Fuck him.” Grantaire glanced at the clock on the microwave. “I’ve gotta get to this wedding. You around later?” he said as he walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

“Joly and I are getting a late dinner after he gets off at the hospital. Wanna come?” Jehan called over the noise of the rushing water.

“Maybe,” Grantaire said as he stripped off his boxers and stepped into the shower.

“It would be good for you,” Jehan said, poking his head in the bathroom door.

“Since when did I ever do anything that was good for me?” came Grantaire’s voice.

“You could always start,” Jehan said.

Grantaire didn’t answer, as he stood under the shower head, feeling the water cascade over his head.

He had closed his eyes to keep the water out of his face – but he couldn’t keep Enjolras out of his head.

** 

The wedding was at the Boathouse in Central Park – a photographer’s dream, with its views of the water and the trees behind. Despite some initial issues with the flowers, and a groomsman who disappeared for a good half an hour, the event had mostly come off without a hitch. By 9:45, the reception was winding down, as the older guests started heading home and the younger guests plotted their post-wedding parties.

Grantaire still had another 15 minutes left on his contract, but he had already taken all of the shots the couple had requested, and the check for his services was tucked in the breast pocket of his only suit, so he took the opportunity to go outside onto the balcony overlooking the water. He lit a cigarette and leaned on the railing, enjoying the cool September evening.

“Grantaire?” came a voice behind him.

Grantaire turned, expecting the voice to come from a member of the wedding -- but instead he found himself face to face with someone he hadn't seen in years. 

“Ferre?” he asked, squinting at him in puzzlement.

“Hey, R,” Combeferre said. 

“Ferre, what are you doing here?” Grantaire said, shaking his head in confusion. “How did you find me?” He hadn’t seen Combeferre since Madison. The years had mostly been kind, though his blond hair was now cut very short, revealing a slightly receding hairline.

“Jehan told me where to find you," Combeferre explained. "Courf found Jehan’s number, and Jehan said you were shooting a wedding--” 

“Wait, Courf talked to Jehan?” Grantaire said. “They haven’t spoken in years – not since Jehan left him for Joly--”

“You know Courf,” Combeferre said with a shrug. “He found out Jehan was teaching at NYU, and managed to convince the department assistant to give him Jehan’s number, so…here we are.”

“Courf was always good at that stuff,” Grantaire said. “He could charm the pants off anyone. And he did. Which is why Jehan left him, as I recall.”

“Courf’s a great journalist,” Combeferre admitted. “But he’s nowhere near as good as you were.”

Grantaire took the last drag on his cigarette, then tossed the butt on the concrete and ground it out with his foot. “What do you want, Ferre?” he asked, jutting out his chin defiantly.

“Can we go inside and grab a drink?” Combeferre asked, shifting his weight from side to side. “I have something I need to ask you.”

“I don’t drink,” Grantaire said flatly.

“You don’t?” Combeferre said, sounding surprised.

“Six years sober, man,” Grantaire said.

“Really?” Combeferre sounded shocked.

“Yeah, I know” he said. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

Combeferre looked at him levelly. “Not really,” he said. “Some of us knew you had it in you.” 

Grantaire looked away -- he could certainly think of a few who didn't think he had it in him. “So why are you here, Ferre?” he repeated. 

Combeferre took a deep breath. “I have a job for you.”

“I have a job,” Grantaire said. “I’m doing it right now.” 

“Taking pictures of weddings? Really? I mean, you’ve always been a great photographer, but—weddings? Really? You used to say you didn’t even believe in marriage,” Combeferre said. 

“I don’t,” Grantaire said flatly. “But the money’s good and I don’t have to get up early.”

Combeferre moved closer to his old friend and put his hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, deciding to take a different tack. “Grantaire, I don't know how else to say this, but—he needs you.”

“Enjolras? Needs me?” Grantaire snorted. “I doubt it.”

“Did you see his video last night?” Combeferre asked, taking a step back and looking directly into Grantaire’s face.

“From Madison?” Grantaire asked. “Yeah, Jehan showed it to me. I haven’t seen him that fired up since we were at the UW.”

“None of us have,” Combeferre said. “But he came back last night, and he wants to change up the entire show.”

“That’s a good thing,” Grantaire said. “The one time I watched it I found it a good cure for insomnia.”

The corners of Combeferre’s mouth turned up slightly at Grantaire's characterization. “I think Enjy would agree with you,” he said. “But the first thing he asked for after the speech was for Courf to find you. He wants you, Grantaire. He says you’re the best reporter he’s ever known, that no one can ask the hard questions, develop the sources—“

“Not anymore, Ferre," Grantaire interrupted. "I haven’t done that shit in years. Certainly not while I was sober,” Grantaire said, shaking his head.

“Just come in and talk to us, R,” Combeferre said. Was he pleading with him? “We’re meeting tomorrow morning for breakfast. Just come, Grantaire. You don’t have to do anything. Just—come talk to him.”

Grantaire inhaled deeply, taking in the night air, then exhaled sharply. “Fine,” he said with an air of resignation. “How can I turn down a free meal?”

Combeferre sighed in relief, then reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a business card. “Be here at 10:00 tomorrow,” he said, handing the card to Grantaire.

Grantaire stared at the card, noting Combeferre's position as a vice president of some sort. “I’ll be there,” he mumbled, as Combeferre walked away. 

He was still standing on the balcony, staring at the card, when his phone buzzed with an incoming text message. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at the text from Jehan.

“Did Ferre find you?” the text read.

Grantaire texted him back. “Enjy wants to see me,” it read.

A minute later the phone buzzed again.

“He must need someone to take that stick out of his ass,” the text read.

Grantaire laughed out loud, then pulled out a cigarette and lit it before strolling off into the New York evening.

Tomorrow he would finally see Enjolras, the youngest man to ever anchor a 9:00 pm newscast.

And the man he thought he'd never see again.


	3. Chapter 3

Sleep didn’t come easily to Grantaire that night.

He had the apartment to himself – Jehan was over at Joly’s – and he found himself pacing the floor, smoking an occasional cigarette. He kept thinking about the scene at the Boathouse with Combeferre, trying to comprehend the idea of Enjolras needing him,

Enjolras had never needed him before.

That to led to him replaying their entire relationship in his mind – how they’d met as reporters on the newspaper, how they’d hooked up in the newsroom one late night their senior year. How they’d tried to make it work for close to two years after graduation, while Enjolras was working at the station in Milwaukee and Grantaire wrote for the Madison alt-weekly. How Enjolras would drive like hell on I-94 after his last broadcast of the week so they could spend their weekend lying together on Grantaire’s mattress on the floor of his bedroom, only leaving the bed for showers and meals. How Enjolras pleaded with Grantaire, trying to get him to move to Chicago to him when he got the bigger job. How Grantaire had hesitated – worrying that he’d be left behind in some tiny apartment somewhere while his boyfriend moved up the career ladder

How Enjolras had yelled at him one night for close to an hour, accusing him of wasting his life, wasting his talent.

And how Grantaire had gotten blackout drunk that night – so much so that he didn’t even remember calling Enjolras and breaking up with him.

God, how he wanted to be that drunk again.

Instead he lay on his bed, still in his dress shirt and gray pants, staring at the ceiling. At around 5:30 he finally dozed off – only to be awakened by the sound of an incoming text at 8:00 am.

Naturally it was Jehan.

He knew he’d probably been up since 5:00, as Jehan liked to get up early on Saturdays to write. He could picture him sitting cross-legged on Joly’s couch, jiggling his leg, waiting anxiously until 8:00 so he could text Grantaire without receiving a string of expletives in return.

“So what are you going to wear?” Jehan’s text read.

‘No clue,” Grantaire replied.

“You should wear a suit,” Jehan implored,

Grantaire looked down at himself. He’d fallen asleep in his only suit.

“Borrow something from my closet,” came the next text. Jehan knew him too well, Grantaire thought with a laugh. The problem was Jehan and Grantaire.had completely different body types – Jehan was tall and more muscular, while Grantaire had to be dragged to the gym and had a slight belly.

“Find my pink shirt,” came the next text. “It should fit. Good color too. Iron is in the bathroom closet.”

Grantaire made a face, but he pulled himself out of bed and padded into Jehan’s room to find the shirt. He fished the iron out of the closet, stripped off his pants and managed to iron them without creating more creases or setting off the smoke alarm. He showered and shaved and dressed in Jehan’s shirt – which did indeed fit him – and his now slightly less rumpled pants and jacket. He rummaged in his drawer, looking for a tie to match, but nothing seemed to work. He decided to skip the tie.

He then took a picture of himself in the mirror and texted it to Jehan.

Jehan texted back a smiley face.

Grantaire pocketed his wallet and keys, and reached for his pack of cigarettes – only to find he’d smoked the last one the previous night. Ah well, he thought – at least he wouldn’t   
reek of cigarette smoke when he saw Enjolras.

Ah, Enjolras, he thought, his stomach churning slightly as he thought of his ex-lover.

He snatched Jehan’s Ray-Bans off the table – his vampire-like hours meant he didn’t need his own pair very often — and headed down the stairs and into the New York morning.

**

The address Combeferre had directed him to was the network’s headquarters, in a glassy modern high-rise in Midtown. Grantaire passed through security and took the elevator to the 37th floor. He pushed through the glass door into the show’s offices, where he was greeted by a slender young man with an abundance of freckles.

Christ, this kid was so young.

Christ, he was so old.

“Grantaire?” The young man asked.

“That’s me,” Grantaire said, managing a sardonic grin.

“Marius Pontmercy,” the young man said, reaching out his hand to shake Grantaire’s. One of Courf’s proteges, Grantaire suspected. Courf tended to collect them. “Associate producer. It’s good to meet you. Come this way.”

Grantaire followed the young man through a maze of cubicles and into a large office with windows overlooking the New York skyline. The furniture was spare and modern and was currently inhabited by four people – two men and two women – all of whom rose when he entered the room.

Grantaire only recognized the two men – neither of whom was Enjolras.

Combeferre came over immediately to greet him. “You made it,” he said warmly, clasping Grantaire’s shoulder.

The other man was Courfeyrac – who, unlike Combeferre, seemed to have not aged at all since their years at the UW. “Grantaire!” he exclaimed, He wrapped Grantaire up in a great bear hug, then pulled back to look at him.

“I like the pink shirt, R,” he said. “How is Jehan, by the way?”

“He’s well,” Grantaire said. “Teaching at NYU—but you knew that, right? Still with Joly, too – you knew that too, I assume,” he said pointedly.

Courfeyrac looked unperturbed. “We’ll all have to get together for dinner sometime,” Courfeyrac said airily, taking Grantaire by the arm and leading him over to sit on the couch. “Let me introduce you, R,” he said. “This is Cosette, our other associate producer,” he said, indicating the blonde woman sitting opposite them in a twinset and pencil skirt.

Cosette laughed. “It’s good to meet you, Grantaire.” she said. “Enjolras told us a lot about you.”

“Don’t let the pearls fool you,” Courfeyrac said. “Cosette’s tougher than all of us combined.”

The dark haired woman on the other end of the couch glared at Courfeyrac. “I thought I was tougher than all of your combined, Courf,” she said icily. “I’m Eponine,” she said, looking intensely at Grantaire.

“You’re the co-anchor,” Granatire said. “I’ve seen you before,” He made a mental note to watch out for her when he took this job.

If he took the job, he corrected himself. If.

“I thought you never watched the show, Grantaire,” Combeferre said from where he was standing by the window.

“I’m a reporter. Was a reporter, I mean,” he said, correcting himself. “So I always do my homework.”

“Of course you do,” came a voice.

The whole group stood up as Enjolras entered the office – except for Grantaire, who remained seated on the couch.

“I wouldn’t expect anything else from you. They could tell you the sky was blue and he’d be looking for independent confirmation,” Enjolras said unsmilingly.

“Good to see you too, Enjolras,” Grantaire said coolly, still not getting up from the couch.

“Hey guys, give us the room for a few minutes, okay?” Enjolras said quietly but firmly.

The rest of the editorial staff filed out as Enjolras walked over to sit across from Grantaire.

“Things never change, do they, Enjy?” Grantaire asked, leaning back on the couch and crossing his legs. “Still bossing everyone around, I see. I can’t believe Courf and Ferre still put up with your shit after all these years.”

“Well, I am the boss around here,” Enjolras said. “I talk, they listen.”

“So why the fuck did you bring me in here then?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras exhaled deeply. “R—I—I need you.”

“Need me?” Grantaire was incredulous. “Need me for what?”

“Did you see the video?” Enjolras asked. “Of me, speaking in Madison?”

“Where you went off on the state of journalism today?” Grantaire said. “Yeah, Jehan showed it to me.”

“And what did you think?” Enjolras said.

“Honestly?” Grantaire asked. “I thought it was a crock of shit.”

Enjolras looked taken aback. “What do you mean?”

Grantaire uncrossed his legs and leaned toward Enjolras. “’The media is full of corporate assholes?’ Dude, you are the quintessential corporate asshole, with your Brooks Brothers shirts and your three part series on companies that specialize in removing dog shit from people’s lawns. Really? This is what you went to J school for? For this?”

“I know, Taire,” Enjolras said, getting up from his chair and starting to pace. “And I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t want to be the Jay Leno of news – the kind of guy who doesn’t bother anyone. I want to bother people again.” He stopped pacing. “You know what I mean?”

“So you figured you’d start by bothering me?” Grantaire said.

Enjolras turned his back on Grantaire and looked out the window, saying nothing.

“Why me. Enjy?” Grantaire asked. “Why now?”

“I need you, R,” Enjolras said, still looking out the window. “You’re the best reporter I’ve ever known. If I’m going to do journalism again – I mean, really do it – I need the best people.” He turned toward Grantaire. “I want you to come work for us.”

“Me? Work for you?” Grantaire chuckled. “That would work our spectacularly, I’m sure.”

“It’s a good place to work – much better money than you’re making as a wedding photographer. I mean, you’ll have to stay clean, pass a drug screen—“

Grantaire rose from the couch. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“The last thing we need if we’re going to do this is some website finding my executive producer passed out in a bar somewhere, or scoring drugs on a street corner—“ Enjolras said, rubbing his forehead.

“I’ve been sober for six years, man, and off drugs for almost four. And it was doctor shopping, not scoring some blow downtown, like Courf used to do,” Grantaire said.

“Regardless,” Enjolras said. “I need an EP who can take care of himself.”

Grantaire started walking toward the door. “Then you need someone else, clearly,” he said, pushing the glass door open. “Besides, didn’t you say journalism was a job for suckers?” he said over his shoulder.

He stalked back through the offices and out to the elevators, where he pushed the down button repeatedly. He was furious – at Enjolras, at Combeferre, even at Jehan for giving out his information.

Yet he felt more alive than he had in months. Years, even.

“Grantaire, wait—“ Combeferre came up running behind him.

“Ferre, this was a terrible idea,” Grantaire said, turned. “Me, as his EP? We’d yell and scream and drive the rest of you crazy.”

Combeferre grimaced. “I’m sorry, R. I shouldn’t have wasted your time. I should have known you wouldn’t take the job,” he said, as the elevator arrived on the floor.

“Who said I wasn’t taking the job?” Grantaire found himself saying as he got on the elevator. “Tell Apollo I’ll piss in his fucking cup. I’ll piss in his fucking coffee if that’s what it takes.” he said, pushing the button for the ground floor. “Call me later and we’ll talk details.”

**

As Grantaire walked out of the building and into the crisp fall day, he shook his head in disbelief as he headed back to the subway to head downtown.

What the fuck am I thinking, he said to himself.

And then he grinned.


End file.
